


Roses

by timeheist



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeheist/pseuds/timeheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor likes R/roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses

“I heard you like roses.”

Simple words, but never ones that the Doctor had expected to hear from the Master. He’d also, not for the first time, mistakenly believed the Master to be dead, so he was probably a fine one to talk, although the Time Lord was not one for sentimentalities and niceties such as giving flowers… Then again, he was incredibly fond of his intellect, and a pun was probably a good example of his pride. But the Doctor did indeed like roses; the flower, and Rose, though he had never spoken properly to the Master about the latter. The Doctor stood stock still, bashful and amazed, in the doorway of his TARDIS, taking in the sopping wet figure of his best friend and enemy standing there in the bleak British rain, grasping a bunch of different coloured roses as though his life depended on it. Burgundy, for unconscious beauty, red for love, dark pink for gratitude, and a single blue rose for impossibility… The Doctor wasn’t sure if the Master had researched the meanings of the roses you gave to a person but if he had, then he definitely had something to say.

“C-Come in.”

He stepped out of the way like a man possessed, each step paining both his hearts and his radiation-poisoned limbs. He’d seen the Master disappear, in front of his eyes – he had been pulled back onto Gallifrey, falling prey to the Time Lock that he had helped to reinstate to save the Doctor from the wrath of Rassilon. Just like setting fire to his funeral pyre beside the carcass of the abandoned Valiant what felt like hundreds of years ago, it had broken his hearts, more than he could ever explain to his companions and friends. He’d lost his temper at Wilf not only because he didn’t want to regenerate, but also because the idea of regenerating again and living on without the Master was one he was starting to realise that he couldn’t bear. He was clinging to his tenth body in the hopes that it was his lucky charm for the impossible – the Master had come back to life twice while he was in this body, and good luck, they said, was something that came in threes. The Doctor was nothing if not insanely lucky.

The Master took just as long to walk into the TARDIS, nursing injuries as painful but not as severe as the Doctor’s. He had just escaped from a Time Lock after all, the Doctor supposed, unless the pain from the chamber he had stepped into had now gotten so bad that he was hallucinating. Or maybe he was regenerating, badly, and dreaming… He couldn’t say for sure, but whatever was happening, for now he didn’t want it to end. It was a much more cheerful way to go than to glow on his own in the darkness without a friend by his side yet again. Sighing dramatically – he felt, under the circumstances, he had the right to do so – he offered his arm to the Master, wincing as the other man’s feverish fingertips brushed against the bare skin of the Doctor’s arms – he’d stripped down to fly, shivering yet sweating himself. A Time Lord had a damned good immunity to radiation, but the full power of the adaptor powering the Immortality Gate had been far more than even he could take. If he was going to die he wanted to do so with some degree of comfort.

Once inside, the Master snorted disdainfully at the Doctor. “Interrupting something, am I Doctor?”

“Oh, just my death. Same old, same old. Come to rub salt in my wounds?”

“You don’t have any wounds.”

“That’s a lie.” The Doctor pouted, grinning weakly. “I fell through a roof.”

“And I fell through a Time Lock.”

The silence fell again, that same, agonising rift between them that was worse than any injury either could attain. The Doctor winced, raising his hand in an offering of tea, the only thing that he could think of, and the Master nodded mutely. It was an age old tradition of theirs, sitting down and discussing their plans over a cup of tea; this time, the conversation would be a little different, but neither saw fit to try and murder the other. There was too much at stake, and too much to bear, to share. Limping, the Doctor led him through to the kitchen (not, the Master commented, that he needed to be led anywhere in the TARDIS after all these years least of all by the Doctor) and turned on the kettle. He took a deep breath, readying himself to speak, when the Master beat him to it, laying the roses down gently in the centre of the table.

“You’re dying.” The Doctor opened his mouth to protest, but the Master shush him by raising an index finger to his lips. “Don’t argue, it’s obvious. I’m in danger just standing this close to you, you’re more radioactive than the Incredible Hulk.” He smirked, but half-heartedly; the Doctor’s pain wasn’t as enjoyable today than it should have been. Neither of them had won, after all, when you looked over their latest fight… But this time it was the Doctor that was dying. Circling the Doctor once, the Master sunk into a chair across the table, tapping out his drumbeat impatiently as he waited for the tea, and the Doctor sighed resignedly.

“Yeah… Couldn’t let Wilf die, could I? Not after all that.”

The Doctor smiled weakly, hissing in pain as he took the remaining seat and slid a sugar-laden tea across the table to the Master. The blond hummed appreciatively, while the brunet contemplated if he could actually stomach the drink. Love of tea won out, as he took a grateful sip - he might as well make his last hours enjoyable. Or, well, as enjoyable as hours could be when you knew an undesirable regeneration (one also bound to hurt) was imminent. A good cup of tea could also loosen the tongue, and after what had happened back there with the Time Lords there were questions to be asked during this truce of the two ineffable rivals. The Doctor swallowed awkwardly.

“How did you survive?”

“Ye of little faith, Doctor!” The Master leant over, hands clasped together with a more familiar twinkle in his eyes. “You didn’t think I’d let you win, did you?” Easing back into his chair and crossing his legs at right ankles, he laughed dryly. “The drums are still here, you know.” He sighed almost regretfully. “I don’t think it would have been the same if they’d stopped, do you? Rassilon’s white point star was left behind in the Naismith Manor too. Think about it, Doctor. The solution's so simple a Time Tot could have figured it out." He winked, "Hardly rocket science."

It made sense, when he thought it through. Curiosity was what had led the Doctor to ask but when it really cam down to honesty, he didn’t care if none of it had ever made sense. All he cared about was that it had, and that the Master was alive. After all that his old friend had done – to him, to Martha, Jack, and Will, not to mention countless others – he still forgave him, as though by default. Maybe that was what came of being the Doctor, an alias sanctimonious of making people better, but the Doctor felt that in this case, where the Master was concerned, it was more a matter of being Theta Sigma. For so long he’d thought his hearts’ desire was the survival of Gallifrey, and of the Time Lord race; maybe it was selfish but when he’d picked up Wilf’s gun and gone to war with Rassilon the Great himself he’d seen his mistake. It was more personal than that.

“But then –!”

“Doctor, with all due respect shut up.” The Master sighed and rolled his eyes, putting down the empty cup of tea and crossing to stand in front of the Doctor before the other Time Lord even had time to think about him moving. He suspected he might have passed out at one point, or lost concentration; one second the Master had been sitting across the table, and the next he was straddling the Doctor’s lap. Not that it was an disagreeable position, it had to be said, but that wasn’t the point. The Doctor let slip an automatic groan, his eyes trailed down the Master’s chest to rest on the position where their hips met like two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle about to slide together. He swallowed again.

“Trousers.”

“Trousers.”

The Doctor was sure he hadn’t passed out this time, because it all happened so suddenly. His hips bucked without consideration for his mind against the Master’s, and their mouths melded together as though pulled by internal magnets, both fighting for dominance and control over the last time these two mouths would ever meet. The Master growled under his breath and bit down sharply on the Doctor’s bottom lip, grazing his teeth playfully across the other man’s jaw as he pulled back, watching him with some amusement. The Doctor panted, moaning as they were separated and lifted his arms to hold the Master’s head, pulling him back for a more gentle, more prolonged kiss and embrace, memorising the shape of the one person who he’d never stopped loving. He had to remember the Master when he regenerated… He wouldn’t let this die! Not so soon after the Master had risked his life for him.

“Oh Doctor, topless like that I’d almost think you were hoping I’d turn up.”

“You saved me…”

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?” The Master’s mouth was right beside the Doctor’s ear, the fronts of their bodies pressed together, and he nibbled possessively on his adversary’s neck as he made himself more comfortable. “Then again this body was always mine, wasn’t it?” The Master had no interest in making the Doctor’s life miserable tonight, but neither could he be around for the regeneration. Besides, what he might like to do and what he could do were two very different things – he would only hurt the Doctor. He knew that… But like the Doctor, he hated it. Leaning back to look the bedraggled Doctor over and stroke him lethargically through his trousers he sighed openly, a sad look on his face. “I can’t stay… Theta.”

The Doctor looked straight into the Master’s eyes, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Suddenly his throat felt unbelievably dry, and he grasped the Master’s arm tightly, biting his lip. “Koschei, I…”

“Don’t get all melodramatic on me, Doctor.” The Master’s eyes were also wet, but there was a smile on his face that bordered on a smirk as he stood up, running his hands over the bouquet of roses. He didn’t meet the Doctor’s eyes but instead slipped his hand past the thorns to pull one final rose from the bunch that had been hidden by the rest. As the black rose was placed in his lap where the Master had been, the Doctor knew for sure that the Master had researched the colours. A black rose… Farewell. The Master watched him and then ran a hand over his face, lingering sadly on his chin. “A Rose by any other name would smell so sweet.” He stood up, straightening his tie – the Doctor noted that since his latest revival, the Master was dressing less like a lunatic and more like Harold Saxon. Was he getting better? – and walked towards the door, confident that the Doctor would follow. Black rose clasped to his chest, follow he did.

“Go see her.”

“…Sorry?”

“Rose.” Jealously flashed across the Master’s face briefly before he turned away. “Go on, before I change my mind.” He lingered in the doorway, then stepped back into the TARDIS to place one more passionate kiss onto the Doctor’s lips. The Doctor stood wordlessly, tears wetting his cheeks in two uncontrollable paths, as the Master turned and left. “I’ll always be here.”


End file.
